


2:56 am

by persesphone



Series: Peter/MJ Future AU [5]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Future Fic, Hurt Peter Parker, Michelle Jones is Awesome, Michelle comforts him like the loving gf she is, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, PeterMJ - Freeform, Peterchelle, Precious Peter Parker, Sinister Six - Freeform, Soft Peter Parker, Spideychelle, Spooning, because peter can't catch a break, is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:49:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persesphone/pseuds/persesphone
Summary: Sleeping with Peter Parker was a mistake—he moans in his sleep, sometimes loudly, sometimes low; and he wraps his arms and tangle his legs around the other in bed, his vice an unbreaking, silent and deadly trap.Moving in with Peter brought on its own new set of problems. Namely of pots of coffee and no sleep, windows and drawers left open on accident only to realize way too late, arguments over killing spiders, of walking in a room to him on the goddamn ceiling, and covering him in Neosporin and boxes of band-aids.Being with Peter Parker is a lot of things, Michelle knows, but late night snacker is one she hadn't suspected before.





	2:56 am

Peter moans in his sleep—sometimes loudly, sometimes low. He’ll give a grunt, eyebrows pulled together, or a soft, drawn out “ _ohh_ ” and wrap his arms and tangle his legs around the other occupant in the bed—sometimes a person, sometimes it's a pillow. And because he has the body of a well-trained athlete, his vices are just as hard and unbreaking, a silent, deadly trap. 

Michelle finds this out too late.

* * *

 

It’s been two months since they've moved into their small, mildly-aged apartment in the city, and already for the fourth time basically half of the cereal is gone, and they're down to the last swig of milk, four eggs, no bread, and there's a whole unopened jar of marinara sauce. A trip to the grocery store is written as a _remind me_  on a sticky note put on the bedroom mirror.

The next morning, Michelle catches him drinking the rest of the milk out of the carton on the sly, and as he swings out the window—like _a goddamn fool_  and in broad daylight—he promises to restock the refrigerator.

* * *

 

Sleeping with Peter Parker was a mistake—that had been told to her on three different occasions by four people she's since lost contact with.

Moving in with Peter Parker brought on its own new set of problems. Namely late nights, of curling up in front of the local news channel, of pots of coffee and no sleep, of windows and drawers left open on accident only to realize way too late, arguments over killing spiders, the unbelievable amount of artificial webbing residue left, of walking in a room to him on the goddamn ceiling; of hanging on a tether of hope, a feather of a promise, of him returning and having to be covered in Neosporin and boxes of band-aids.

Being with Peter Parker is a lot of things, Michelle knows, but late night snacker is one she hadn't suspected before.

It starts with small things: glasses of water or juice in the middle of the night, which turn into snacking on junk food or crackers after she's asleep, to fixing thick sandwiches nearing midnight.

And then it’s edging one in the morning, Michelle awakens from his moaning, his arms around her middle tightening ever slightly, and his hips give a lazy roll twice. And then, less than an hour later, she's stirred awake again from the feeling of her limbs detangling, and her face screwed up from sleep, asks if he's making another nightly trip to the kitchen. It's four in the morning. She's answered with silence, immediately drifting back off to sleep. When she gets up to use the restroom and the bed is still empty, she finds him peering into the tub of ice-cream, scrapping the bottom with a silver spoon, and she’ll inform that he's developing a habit that’s sure to catch up to him if he continues eating two dinners in one day.

It's been four months and Michelle has since both gotten used to it, and she hasn't. Peter's late nights continue. At times he'll swing in through the window at two in the morning, and sometimes he's slipping out into the night in just a pullover hoodie. Sometimes she'll wake to the sight of his chest, his jaw, and the bright, blooming marks left across his skin, and sometimes he's the early riser. Most times, she wakes up and finds what she had been wanting for breakfast was eaten the night before.

* * *

 

It's nearing five months that Michelle and Peter have been living together when a gang of villainous madmen ban together against Spider-Man. The result is ugly, disastrous, and the declaration of the Sinister Six while ambushing the city and Michelle had tried to follow what she could but was stopped by police sectioning of several blocks and stopping any pursuing citizens. The attack lasted for three days. Michelle remained glued to a television, always half awake and half alert.

When Peter finally returned, he didn't leave the house for a week, disregarding work. And when he comes home, he stays in bed. She doesn't ask for details. She'll join for comfort, for the peaceful silence, to help in what way she can to ease the burden and nightmares whether it's physical touch, reading aloud, or just presence.

It's unrelated to the Sinister Six when Michelle turns over and falls on empty sheets late one night—his spot's ebbing warmth a tell that she's long missed his departure. Sighing that comes out more like a groan, Michelle sits up, giving a languid arch of her spine, stretching of her arms and a yawn, before swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The floor is freezing beneath her feet that softly shuffle, her pajamas rustling, and she runs a hand through her hair that gets tangled midway; she groans, yanking her fingers out.

The apartment is dark and quiet—all of the lights are off except for one coming from the light over the stove; there are no noises except for vehicles and pedestrians in the streets, and the television left on. Michelle rounds a corner and finds Peter on the sofa with his legs drawn to his chest and nose pressed to his knees—it's a gentle sight that makes him seem more vulnerable than she knows he is—it's less so his position and more of the unbroken habit of buying clothes are just a size too big for him, that drape lose on his form. Admittedly, Michelle had been disappointed once Peter couldn't fit the  _iconic Hello Kitty_ pajama pants any longer sometime back in freshman year of college, but he'd bought a pair of Disney's Olaf the snowman pajama pants as a replacement. He says that he liked the warm, comforting fuzziness they were. Michelle liked the flare of the pants leg and appreciated how lowly they hung on his hips—they new ones, not so much. But his shirts are still lose and long-sleeved and hangs past his wrists, hair still a mess from sleep, so she  _can't really help it_ when she approaches from behind and drape her arms over his shoulders.

Peter jumps before she's near, then relaxes when he's able to distinguish her face in the darkness, his feet dropping to the carpet rug. In a low voice he tells that he couldn't sleep.

Michelle doesn't nod, doesn't give any indication except to pull her arms away, taking her warmth and Peter's hand that trails down to her fingertips because if had been curled around her bicep encircling his neck. Rounding the sofa, she comes and knocks his knees with her hip, taking the seat beside him.

On the screen plays a late night talk show; the guest is a political novelist neither have heard of before. An on-stage band plays a tune in-between script acts. Michelle wraps a hand around Peter's shoulders and he guides himself to rest his head on her thighs. Her hands weave into his hair as he wiggles to get comfortable, fingers drumming a loose rhythm across her knees. There's product placement he points out; the show's host and guest laugh, joke, and play a weird guessing game involving eraser marker boards and popping balloons. A man on a microphone cracks dry jokes. Peter snuggles closer into her lap, and when the guessing game ends, he wraps his arms around her middle. It's an awkward angle, but he eventually manages to accomplish it at a comfortable position. The talk show goes to commercial break; Michelle continues stroking his hair, and when her nails accidentally rake across his scalp, he releases a small, involuntary moan, grabs her wrist to stop her momentarily. He guides her hand back to his head during a Swiffer commercial. Bending over, her lips touch his forehead and can tell he had been sweating—another nightmare, she assumes, no doubly.

There's been a number of them since the Sinister Six attack.

The Swiffer commercial ends and an upcoming movie's tv spot plays. Michelle's voice is a terribly accomplished whisper, croaking a low "hey...?" against his hair. Peter hums in acknowledgment. Her first thought is to address the ongoing nightmares or to ask about the influence the gang of villains has on him, but at the last minute she changes her words to, "still can't sleep?"

Peter shakes his head. The area of her thighs underneath his head is growing warm.

A hand slowly runs through his hair, more careful this time. "How long have you been up?"

He shrugs. His hand falls from her knees to hang limp against her legs.

He has work tomorrow; lately, he's been running on four and five hours of sleep. Six on a good night.

He exhales a deep extensive sigh. Michelle's fingers idly drift from his hairline and she asks if the bags of tea actually work to help sleep better. Peter gives a "more or less" wave of his hand. The talk show comes back on. Her fingertips slide down his nose, glide across his cheekbones, and asks if he'd rather sleep on the couch tonight as a change of scenery. Peter shakes his head, stops, pauses, and then shrugs again. Eventually, her hand reaches his neck, running across his shoulders and down his side, and she inquires if there's anything he wants to talk about. Peter stills; a moment too long ticks by before he's shaking his head again, mumbling "no, there's—not—not really, no."

Michelle isn't going to pry.

It's in the final ten minutes of the talk show is when Peter sits up from here lap and announces that he's going out.

And because she's slightly more awake now, suspicion seeps into her question of "why" and "where?"

"The store."

"There's none that's open. It's late"

"Cosco is twenty-four hours."

"No Cosco isn't," and her eyes train on him as he slowly stretches. "It's passed midnight."

"Then what's open?"

"I don't know." She thinks. "Maybe Walmart...? The one that's a little far away."

Peter stills. "Oh."

She waits a few moments before asking, "what do you need to go to the store for?" They aren't out of toilet paper, of Febreeze or coffee grounds, and there was a filling dinner shared, so Michelle can't think of why.

Peter's answer is a short, "pie."

Michelle blinks. "What?"

He's  standing now. "I'm going to the store to get pie."

She gawks. "It's...in the middle of the night! And there's  _work_ tomorrow—and— _pie!?_ "

"Yes," he argues, starting to slide on a jacket hanging on the metal hooks near the kitchen entrance. "And it's the next day, MJ. It's never too late for pie."

She squints, confused, and watching him. "Well _I_ thought dinner was filling," she comments, very smart-ass-like. "It's, like, two in the morning. There's not much difference."

His hands are shaking a little as he searches the jacket's pockets for something. Michelle notices—and that she doesn't get a response.

"Peter?" He ignores her, walking off to their shared bedroom, mumbling under his breath for something. She turns, looking over the back of the sofa and calls again, louder, throat still scratching. "Peter?"

Silence. A truck drives by outside, siren blaring. There's a  _thunk_ of some things hitting each other from the bedroom and then him cursing.

"Peter," Michelle tries again. Still there's no answer.

Peter exists the room still in his pajamas but has put on an unmatching pair of sneakers. Michelle plans to replace them for his birthday. Keys jingle in his pocket, and he's scrolling through his cellphone.

"Can't this wait for tomorrow?" She yawns. "Two A.M...?"

Without looking up, " **I don't care that it's two A.M., we need _pie_ _!_** "

"Ok. Why?" She's scratching at her eyes.

There's a quick pause as he tries to think up a believable answer. "Because!"

Michelle's staring at him, and he knows that she's too smart for this, no matter how tired she is. He turns his phone over in his hands, appearing guilty, focusing on his hands. The sleeves of his shirt poke out form his jacket and cover his knuckles.

Her tone is clearer, more stern when she calls his name again. And like a guilty child, he sheepishly looks up to see her arm motioning him to her. He obeys. When he's close enough, she grabs his hand, grabs his arm, and pulls him back to the sofa so she can wrap her arms around him. "Wait for tomorrow?" Her cheek rests on his exposed collarbone, curls tickling his face.

"I really want to go get some. Been craving some for a long while."

She pulls back so she can glare at him. "No you haven't. No since two days ago."

Unsure how exactly she knows this when he hasn't voiced this, he choses to aid his argument. "Yeah—but—that's still a long time!" he defends, sputtering.

She's got her hands sliding underneath the jacket, sliding it off, lips pressing to his cheeks, his scrunched nose, forehead, and his lips, ignoring his feeble protests. She gets his jacket off, and then the keys out of his pocket. He darts for them in her hands, but she pulls away. They're disposed on a seat underneath the window across the room. Peter frowns. Michelle ensnares him in her limbs so he can't move from the sofa.

"You can do that tomorrow." 

He whines like a child. "But I want pie!"

"Tomorrow." It's both a plea and a demand, her legs locking around his legs, holding him down to cushions. "Because, I swear, if you leave again, it better be because of Dr. Oc or an alien." It's more so her sleepiness talking now, putting the sharp emotion into her tone.

Sure, he could easily lift her off, but he was hopelessly weakened from the her breath heating his shirt's shoulder, her hair tickling his face, her hands balled into the fabrics on his back, the comforting weight on his body. And so Peter can only sigh, and mumble, "fine." She noticeably loosens her grip and asks if Peter would rather sleep out here on the living room sofa or back in the bed. He thinks it over. "Um...Out here's fine..." He's awkward as he finds room to lay sideways; her knees tangled between his calves at an odd angle.

"But..." He starts, and stops. Swallows. Repeats in a lowered, shy voice, "but—only if, um, you'll, you know..."

She blinks slowly. "No, I don't know."

He doesn't look at her. "If you'll...if you'll, like, um, stay out here too."

Again, Michelle blinks without moving, but luckily it's only for a few moments and she leaning over uncomfortably to give what she could of a hug. "Sure," is kissed across his temple, and then she's pushing him forward to the edge of the sofa. "Scoot up."

He does as he's told. Michelle squeezes between him and the back of the sofa; her arms are thrown around him and he toes off his sneakers. He feels her pull him close, nose burying in his hair, and despite this not being unfamiliar, he still feels his cheeks heating up. She spoons him on their thrift store-bought sofa. It's intimate and comforting.

It's  _cute_ , Michelle breaths into his unruly hair.

By now, the talk show has ended and another one that's dry and less entertaining takes its place. The couple listen to jokes about politics and global climate change and A-list celebrities making bad choices. Ten minutes into it, Michelle finally blurts the question that has been plaguing her for weeks: "does this has to do with the Shithead Six, why you can't sleep?" She uses the name she's only tossed around in her head about the Sinister Six; she still doesn't think the name is clever or asshole-like enough.

Peter takes his time to answer. Beneath her hands, she feels his heart's pace speed at the mention of the name. He watches the television screen. Squeezes his eyes closed, raises a hand to press to his cheek, wills his pulse to slow down again. Sighs. Nods. Another kiss to his hair, her hand rhythmically sliding through the unbrushed mess is her response. Her other tightens the hold around his middle.

There's a psychiatrist she managed to find several months back. Michelle will wait to bring that back up as an advice for him.

Because for now, they're going to settle on crappy tv, the warm blanket that Peter momentarily leaves to retrieve, and dozing off to retellings of all the great (and idiotic) characteristics and memories she can remember with her bleary mind, arms and legs a comforting vice around him that helps sleep come and stay.

By morning light, it's found out that sometime in the night he turned to be facing her, the low hum of volume from the television left overnight, and the sun blinding her, filtering in through the closed blinds. The distant ring from his Spider-Man suit's A.I. comes from somewhere in their room. Peter is snuggling her shirt's neckline, at last soothed and snoring. Michelle turns up the volume of the television and lets the suit's A.I. continue to ring.

**Author's Note:**

> this a second drabble of soft!peter inspired by the tumblr artist @spidertams work and a prompt given by @pizzaplanethq: "agsbwjns please a 'i don't care that it's 2:00 am we need PIE' w spideychelle if you're up for it!!!"
> 
> **please, feedback is the only thing I ask for please**


End file.
